


Track Record

by clemora



Category: my own work of art
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clemora/pseuds/clemora
Summary: In which Tasya decides to spill her insides out because there is nothing wrong with feeling things





	1. ?

It's even disgusting for me to reread what I was feeling a couple of months ago.

I don't know what makes me think it's a good idea to start this personal project. I really don't. But some part of me just decided to hang on. Maybe it's because I'm not good at anything else. Or maybe it's because its harder to lose hope rather than getting angry at myself for creating something raw; something real; something that's a part of me.

I hope I'm not too much of a disappointment or a joke to future Tasya. She owes me the love she gives others so easily. 

Tasya last year was another story.

She was a liar to many people except herself. I hate her with passion, but lately I find it hard to remaster the courage of being honest to myself. I'm quite the opposite of her now, and I don't know which one hurts less.

She wrote down something. Something messy and hard to understand. She's always unorganized. Most often than not, she doesn't know what she's saying. She said, 'I hate writing things down in my perspective, especially retelling events that are real and moments that are actually glimpses of my life.'

I hold back a scoff at that. Take a look at her archives on instagram, you'll understand why.

'It makes me feel vulnerable.' she insisted, head harder than a rock. 'It makes me feel empty, and I think I have worn my secrets like a shield, shaping and blending them in a third perspective in stories I write, but never truly in a form of a diary; a journal; a track record of a life I have lived for seventeen years.'

She wasn't wrong. It's probably why I decided to start this project.

I'm a lot like her in some ways, aren't I? I can already feel her rolling eyes at me. Ah, the cold, rigid wind of teen rebellion.

'It feels really awkward and weird to let my inner turmoil out literally rather than verbally.' she uttered. 'I have accepted that I am better with words when I have to write them, not speak them.'

It looks like she knew what she was talking about.

I reread what she wrote more than twice, more than what I am willing to admit. I'm not gonna lie, it sort of hit the jackpot. My sentences are always a disarray of words when it comes out of this unholy mouth. They're the result of this cluttering brain.

But was it what she wanted back then? For me right now to take such deep breaths and felt each jab of her words very vividly?

'But more than anything,' she continued. 'Telling my feelings in such a raw way like this without another layer of characters and plot as a coverage has forced me to put my mind in the simplest sentence possible. I cannot exaggerate. I cannot sugar-coat things. I cannot flirt and use flowery words, and so without it, what is left, most often than not, are the ugly truths.'

That's when I tighten my jaw.

'Be it emotions that I tend to run from, or thoughts that I desperately try to erase, it all comes out. Evidently. Clear of justification and romanticized reasons. I cannot help it. I vomit it all— events, moments, feelings, the smell of dust and the taste of local food. It is true. My writing is true. It is no longer a story I make up with characters I create. It is my life, devoid of lie and hyperbole to make it sound a bit Shakespearean.'

I want to plead her to stop, and I have this wild desire to shut her up. But she won't stop. She keeps writing like thread of golden rays will spill from the tip of her fingers, madly crushing the keyboard. She keeps on writing, and writing, and writing.

'It is who I am.'  she continued, never listening. Just like me. 'It is who I am. And it isn't always beautiful.' 

 

 

_I think that's what we fear the most._


	2. Jakarta, let her leave you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't wanna miss you anymore

this is going to be hard.

this is going to be an emotional, gay ass shit kind of mess. and it's going to take a while for me to finish this chapter. maybe i never will, but something just keeps on nagging me and i think it's the living guilt that silently runs under my veins, turning them into liquid inferno that burns even at the slightest thought of you.

or maybe i'm just missing you.

I just erased a sentence that says, 'this is disgusting'. Maybe Tasya two or three days ago thought writing about you is a taboo, but Tasya right now, sitting in the library at the last table across the _toilet reservee pour les etudiant et travaillant CDI_ is having a major throwback of how we used to be friends. Not some ordinary friends, but the kind of friends that would defy the world together and watch the earth burn while we give ourselves a toast.

I want to stop asking questions like 'how are you?' or 'how have you been doing?' because it makes me feel pathetic. Not being in your life anymore makes me feel pathetic. And although I made an oath to stop blaming myself for what had happened, I still think that I don't deserve to know how your days have gone by, or what made you laugh these past couple of months. I must've missed a lot.

(I feel like if you're reading this, you're going to scoff at me and think, 'Tasya, you blew your chance.'

Maybe I did, but that doesn't mean I quit caring.

How could I when it comes to you?) 

* * *

 

I keep telling to myself I will update this chapter of you, but it hurts to do so.

I don't like this.

This constant remembrance of you imprinted on every little corner of Paris and my mind, I don't like it at all. It used to be good when we were still friends, but I don't know what we are now because we still call ourselves the same, except this time a bitter aftertaste clings so stubbornly. 

Are we too good at pretending, or are we really okay?

 

(And if your eyes linger on the last one, why don't you ever call me or leave a message?)

 


	3. SPNDS

I feel like if I write right now, I will not stop and miss my chemsitry quiz, so wait for a bit, love. I'll come back to you before the stars burn.

**Author's Note:**

> the journey ends here, take a rest for a new beginning


End file.
